Ketterly shrugged again, regaining some of his bluster now that it seemed unlikely Mags was going to hit him on the head or Mr. Landry was going to spring up and start singing and dancing or something. “Do? Shit, dump the body. Bring it back to the old lady; it’s hers, right? Or call your gasam, kid. Kick this up the chain of command.”
I looked at the body. My education hadn’t progressed very far, but I knew that demons, once trapped in something by a skilled saganustari or enustari, didn’t just disappear. They had to be released. Which meant that when my knockout spell faded, old Mr. Landry would be back on his feet, terrifying the commuters of the world.
The thought of contacting Hiram made me feel sick. Or maybe that was the blood loss. But Ketterly was useless, I knew that. He was a lazy, small-time mage who scraped by just like the rest of us. We needed someone with real knowledge, real connections. That wasn’t Hiram, either, really, but the fat old bastard was at least adjacent to real magic.
I looked at Ketterly. “Fine. But we bled. You owe us fifty each.”
WE HAD A hundred bucks, but we walked to Hiram’s. Carrying a corpse onto the subway would strain my little spell, and I didn’t have the gas for anything else, which left out a Charm to get a free ride from someone. Other ustari with less conscience might have bled someone else to get the job done. But me and Mags, we didn’t bleed anyone except ourselves. It was how we kept from drowning in the sewers we swam in, but it was exhausting.
I kept a fresh wound on my hand to fuel the cloaking spell; between the blood loss and the walk, I was dizzy and unsteady, but I was eager to unload the body—specifically, the demon within—on someone else and start working on turning Ketterly’s hundred dollars into a slightly larger pile of money. It was getting cold, and the idea of spooning Mags on the street during the winter nights was unappealing.
Hiram’s townhouse was a block away from Prospect Park, a crumbling little place that gave every impression he’d lived there since it had been built, that perhaps it had even been built around him, like a pyramid around a pharaoh. The block was sleepy, and Hiram kept his house Warded so the occasional explosion or scream emanating from his rooms wouldn’t cause any unnecessary worry.
The Wards also meant that the moment Mags and I climbed the stairs, he knew we were there. The front door opened when we were halfway up, and Hiram emerged, hair as white as his crisp dress shirt, red suspenders straining against his round belly, beard perfectly groomed, as always.
“Masters Vonnegan and Mageshkumar,” he boomed, slipping his thumbs under his suspenders and rocking on his heels. “As you are here, by definition you are in trouble, so I am excited to hear your tale of new woe and how I might assist you with no hope of compensation.” Raising his eyebrows, he snapped his suspenders back against his chest. “Also, you have brought me a corpse. How thoughtful.”
I swallowed bile and forced myself to be polite. When I’d actively been Hiram’s apprentice he’d been a miserable pain in the ass, telling me how stupid I was, perpetually unhappy with my memory, my comportment, my choice of vocabulary. When he’d grudgingly admitted I had a talent for the Words, he followed it up with a lengthy complaint about my pronunciation. And when I’d refused to bleed the shivering, terrified girl, her sneakers drawn up with pink marker, a twenty-dollar bill folded neatly and secured in the pocket of her torn jeans, Hiram had yelled at me for three straight days before kicking me out onto the street, assigning Mags to me as an additional punishment.
“Not a corpse, old man,” I said. “An Udug named Balahul.”
Hiram raised one snowy eyebrow. “I see your penchant for disaster has remained as strong as ever, Mr. Vonnegan. And you have brought me an incredibly dangerous bound intelligence because . . . ?”
The inflection was familiar: I had thirty seconds, give or take, before Hiram exploded into a rage, possibly raining down bolts of lightning or turning me into a small lizard. I pulled out my cigarettes and lit one to put some smoke between us.
“It tried to kill a few people in the subway yesterday,” I said, rushing to get in the explanation before he blew up. “It didn’t give a shit about being seen, and it seemed to be enjoying itself. I knocked it out, but it’s going to wake up eventually.”
“And this is my problem why, Mr. Vonnegan?” Hiram shouted, leaning forward, his face flushing. “You refuse my counsel, my training, and my hospitality, yet you always return for my assistance. Which perhaps might indicate that you need my tutelage, yes?”
“Hiram,” I said. “I just need help getting rid of the demon, okay? Or we can leave it sitting on your steps and walk the fuck away.” I exhaled smoke, head swimming. “Your choice, old man.”
He seethed at me for a moment, teeth bared, then settled back and looked at Mags and the old man.
“Balahul,” he said softly. He took a deep breath. “Very well. You’d best bring it inside. You’re not the first person to bring me an animated corpse this evening.”
3.